The Big Wheel

by Scott Archer Jones

  “Office gossip? I wouldn’t have thought it in you, Mr. Thomas Cabot Steward.”

  He grinned. “All corporate men are little old women. You know that.”

  “You would know as much as I about the hammer. You’re invited into the inner sanctum.”

  “The only guy on the skids I know is Garland. I’d help him out if I could—he got a bum rap.”

  She said, “Bum rap. How George Raft.”

  “Okay, it’s a canard and a slander, if you like that better. Garland’s organization did the right things, but they banged up against someone who was better and had more invested. Playing defense is tough.”

  “Nice of you. Mr. Garland wastes no affection on you.”

  “Anyone else I need to watch out for?”

  “Weeell.” She toyed with her glass. “I hate to say. But I’ll give you a freebie, being you’re new and a preppie on top of it. Stay away from the VP of Research. For some reason he’s the fair-haired boy right now. He doesn’t play nice.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” He slipped his hand out across the glass table towards hers.

  She glanced down at his hand, then glided her hand back. She crossed her arms, framed the gorgeous V of her cleavage. “Don’t expect this type of revelation again. You wouldn’t want me talking about you at work, would you?”

  He leaned back and made the leather and chrome chair squeak. “Depends on the context… and the amount of admiration you express.”

  “My, and he’s vain, too.”

  “Realistic.” He waited to see the result of this claim.

  She smiled, her teeth phosphorescent in the blue light. “Men are seldom realistic. For instance, they think they’re loners, but they’re really pack animals.”

  “And O’Brien has a pack?” Amused, he showed his own teeth.

  “Oh yes. For one, he has Garland as his beagle. LeFarge is his pit bull.”

  “And me?”

  “You’re the Labrador retriever. No, the wolfhound.”

  There were worse dogs than a wolfhound. “You’ve finished your drink. Another? Or maybe dinner?”

  “We both know what dinner means, Thomas Cabot Steward. I won’t go up that road. I’ll take the drink, though. I’ll put it on your expense account when I fill it out. You’ve certainly been working.”

  ***

  I’m on the sofa. I’m lying on the couch where I started hours ago. I am profoundly stoned down, just where I want to be. I say it aloud. “Profound.” My muscles twitch in a startled little jerk. Why? I hear something back behind the kitchen. I ease up off the couch on cat’s feet, tranked cat’s paws. I creep through my house to scan the back.

  At the fire escape, I stare down to see black SUVs in the alley. Men move around like snakes in a pit in their black jackets with large yellow letters on the back—“DEA.” Christ and Kram, this is a raid by the dope police. There’s no way I’ll go into a Fed Scuzz Bucket just for my benzos and jackets.

  Running to my bed, I fish the paper bags out from under and also the windbreaker I wore today. I shake the yellows out into my hand and throw them in one of the bags. Whoa, what’s this? The acrylic box from the score, all lustrous and white in the dark of the room. It, too, has to go so little Robko can live the next few years free. There’s also a hundred grams of Phenobarbital under the sink—Jesus wouldn’t that get me sent up for dealing! I jam the box and the pheno into the garbage disposal—turn on the water. Flip the switch to hear it grinding. Run for the bath, throw all the pills in the toilet, shake the bags out over the porcelain, flush-flush-hit-the-handle. Back to the kitchen to turn off the water, turn off the grinder—tiptoe back to the window where they creep up the fire escape. I know there’s got to be someplace in here I can hide till they’re gone. A big thunderous sound at the front door, kram it all, they’re blasting away at the front door with a shotgun! Now a ram. On second thought there’s no hiding. I’ve got to run from these guys because they don’t act like cops; they act like a death squad—I’ve gotta get out, but the freight elevator in the back opens onto where their trucks are parked, and the front door is down—they’re coming in. I snatch up the run-bag from under the bed. The hatch in the living room—I run as quiet as I can across the room—I’ve got a trap door under one of the tables—I pry the floor up. They’re insanely loud, or maybe it’s in my head. I’ve got seconds to get out of sight. My salvation exists as a black hole under a table. I twist around to drop my legs through. I can feel my feet catch on the rafters below on the metal truss. I squat down below the floor. I curl up into the space below and drag the hatch closed over me. I’m in the restaurant supply under my loft where I hang by my hands and drop down onto the shelving. Thank You Mary and Joseph—boxes not piles of plates. I slither across the top to the end of the row. I climb down the side. Oh Christ on a Crutch… I wish I wasn’t so stoned. I would know how to get out of here in one piece. The yellows roar in my head fighting with the adrenaline. But now I remember my bike—this warehouse connects to the next one over. The boys let me store the bike there. I scurry rodent-like down the aisle to the back. Through the bars and glass, I can see them in the alley with their guns and their toys. At the door in the side wall—a key over the jamb—I can feel my hands shake. I drop the key. Of course I have to scuttle around on the floor. Feel for it. Ah there it is. Unlock the door. Slip through oh I do know how to slip don’t I. Here’s the bike up against the wall under the tarp. Draw the tarp off softly… softly. Crap, I dropped the helmet didn’t I? I drag on the jacket, zip it up… and the helmet—can a helmet stop a nine mil? Now push the bike to the back crafty… crafty. Turn the alarm off. Slide back the door. Oh God don’t squeak—it leads to a loading dock that sits on the back. The door is a black hole in the shadow, but can they hear it creaking open? No one hears me. Hoist my leg over the bike. Oh careful I can do this. Breathe and turn the key. Fire the bike—she catches. She growls. She’s in gear. She howls and shoots forward. I fly off the dock at an angle, down the alley into freedom. The bastards are shooting. What is this? These aren’t cops. They’re the Nazis in Poland. I lean into the corner out onto the street. She cuts the New York night like a laser running ahead of me. I take a left onto Delancey to run up through the lights so fast I can’t glance down at the speedo—here’s the Williamsburg Bridge—bomb across into the next borough. Then I’ll decide what to do and where to go.

  Across the bridge, I slow down from eighty to thirty. Can’t afford to get caught by some patrol car after outrunning a death squad. I’m panting like a winded runner, but I’ve burned the downers out of my system. Where am I going? Sibyl, of course, I can go to Sibyl. She can kill me instead of these boys. Small difficulty. Sibyl lies back across the water behind me. I’ll go all the way around, cross Manhattan, and cut through Chinatown.

  I better pull into an alley and slow my heart down some. Here, turn in here, behind a club I know. Park by the dumpster and this slab of a back door. An alley light hangs over me. I wish someone had busted that one out—no matter. Breathe. Damn. A person—tall—moves away from me down the alley, into the blackness.

  On the wall I see the same graff as I saw at Bennie’s, the same basic shapes, the quote marks, a signature that is a block of visual gibberish. This one says, “Plunge Me Into The Shit And Raise Another Up.” I’m beginning to feel I’m following this guy around. Screw him. Screw this omen.

  Chapter Five: Hide in Plain Sight

  Robko couldn’t approach Sibyl straight on—God knew how she would react. He chose the Cumberland Hotel on the edge of SoHo because they knew him. First, he parked the bike deep in their garage on a day ticket. He retrieved his Black-Irish alias from the run-bag, pocketed it, and hung the bag over his shoulder. Rather than pop straight in, he ambled around a bit to clear his head—he had just been through a lot.

  Since he had first noticed the graff on the shop outside his coffee house, he paid more attention to street art—it calmed him and excited him at the same time, like a barbiturate gork.
He studied the clues and searched for the prophecy. He ranged down a street, away from SoHo where it turned grittier, where bits of trash traveled along the walls, gossiped, whispered. He saw various admonishments painted up on the walls: to do impossible sex acts, an opinion about the current mayor’s mother, and a strange graff that said, “Sweet Mouth Make Me Well.” That one reminded him of Sibyl. The graff mirrored the new style—the type he had picked up on only yesterday. He scowled at the tag beside the graffiti—an image of a black silhouette in a long coat. The black man again.

  He caught a cab back to the hotel as a cover and made a formal entrance at the front door. He recognized the clerk, but the clerk had forgotten him.

  Robko handed over a driver’s license. “Hi, Johnny. I’m checking in. I don’t have a reservation, but since I stay here so often….”

  “I believe we have a room available, Mr.—Abernethy? One moment.” The clerk clattered away on his keyboard. “Yes, I’ve got you here. You’re a member of our loyalty program I see, and here is all your data. Still Boston?”

  “Yes, I’m just in from there today. You keep a bag here for me. If you’ll have the concierge find it please.”

  “Very good sir. I’ll need a credit card.”

  “I hate all those receipts, don’t you?”

  The desk clerk shot him a look.

  Robko coughed, arched his eye. “I’d prefer the wife not know about this one, and she’s my bookkeeper. I’ll just pay for three days, like always, and a couple hundred for incidentals.” Robko, now Sean Abernethy, counted out fourteen hundred.

  “Very good sir.”

  “Is the kitchen still open?”

  “We can do light snacks sir. Breakfast starts at six.”

  “Great. I may have a visitor this evening or tomorrow. Send her up when she asks for me.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll leave instructions here on the computer. I’ll have a bellboy bring up your bag as soon as we retrieve it.”

  Robko rode up in the old gilded elevator, sauntered down the Beaux Arts hallway, and entered his funky, tawdry room. Four hundred a night didn’t buy much in Manhattan. Still, he had lived in a lot worse. He picked up the hotel vidi-phone and got an outside line. He dialed, and the other end picked up on the second ring. The man answering was in a starched, striped shirt with a deep maroon tie. He gazed serenely into the screen and said, “Box Office Entertainment.” With his eyes at half-mast like that, he looked like a dressed-up snake.

  “I’d like to make a booking for the evening.”

  Box Office produced a clipboard and a pen. “Yes sir. Which show?”

  “Sibyl.”Snake-man riffled back a page. “I’m sorry, sir. Sibyl is sold out this evening. Not even SRO. Perhaps you’d be interested in another of the shows?”

  “No, I’ll wait until I can attend a Sibyl performance. When the ticket booth calls in, let her know it’s Sean Abernethy at the Cumberland. Tell her no hurry; an afternoon matinee is fine.”

  In a polite echo to the desk clerk minutes before, Box Office said, “Very good sir. I’ll let the show know you called.”

  Sean Abernethy didn’t feel hungry; he felt famished. He dialed room service.

  ***

  Thomas had been cut out of the loop by LeFarge and Garland, and the workarounds didn’t make him happy. He had the name Carl Dupont, and he had access to raw data from Corporate Security, delayed by at least a day. He didn’t receive their analysis or any clues on where LeFarge and Garland were headed. In spite of the printouts and memory sticks on his conference room table, he saw only a barren field. Not acceptable. On the other hand, Garland and LeFarge hated each other enough, maybe, that the two wouldn’t partner up to screw him. Small consolation.

  In the meantime he was pinned to this room with its brown, rich carpet, its white walls, and its sheet of glass overlooking Manhattan.

  Angie strode in to the conference room with coffee and a memflash. “Breakthrough! Mr. Garland’s assistant slipped us these files and said Security doesn’t want these on the network. ‘Please treat with utmost confidentiality,’ she says.”

  “Good morning to you too, Angie.” He cheered up immediately at the sight of the memflash.

  “Here’s your latté, and good morning, Mr. Steward.”

  “Thomas. I prefer Thomas. Any calls?” He was watching her tight, lustrous blouse, with its slashing neckline. He had to remind himself to look up into her eyes.

  She grinned, her teeth flashing white. “I suspect you’ve been here for some time, so you would know.”

  He could smell a faint scent from her, the scrubbed smell of a good shampoo. In spite of himself, he leaned forward to breathe in more of it. “Well, yes, I did come in early. It was worth it. I have a source that claims everyone wants Dennis Malley O’Brien dead and that O’Brien doesn’t give a rat-shit what they think. I know quite a bit more about Carl Dupont, but nothing about his associates or employees. I also know there’s been an earthquake in northwest China.”

  “I’m impressed.” She pointed at the memdevice. “Um, if I were you, I’d look at the action log for Captain LeFarge’s team. Corporate Security’s folks are all rushing back and forth whispering about it.”

  She was bringing him good luck as well as the data and advice. “Excellent. Maybe I can catch up with what’s happening.” He waved his hand at his tablet. “And when in doubt, follow the money. A friend of mine has done some extraordinary data search that cost O’Brien forty thousand because of its alleged illegality. I now possess two years of Mr. Dupont’s bank transactions.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Yes, you can. Bring your desktab and start looking at Mr. Dupont’s cash flow.”

  She sat down on the opposite side of the table, sliding into a chair like slipping into a swimming pool. She loaded the transactions that he blue-toothed to her and said, “What am I looking for?”

  “Where he gets his money… unusual large payments, travel, rent or mortgage payments for buildings we don’t know about. Also regular ATM withdrawals to cash—and where the ATM is. Large equipment purchases like getaway vans. Oh, and any check labeled Safecracker, payment for—”

  “Ha ha.”

  The memflash she had brought startled him. “Can I read you some of this while you work?”

  “Sure. I can multi-task with the best of them.” She sneaked him a sly look and grinned.

  “LeFarge’s team raided an apartment—the apartment that I found for them! They took down Carl Dupont and wrung a fair amount of intelligence out of him. Listen to this; it’s cop-speak for a beating. ‘After some difficulties with the criminal, he was induced to surrender the name of his B&E man and of the two other persons in the crew. Only three employees…’ blah blah. Now it picks up. ‘The safecracker’s name is Robert Zlata. According to the perpetrator, the other two suspects are out-of-state already….’ Blah blah, ‘one in jail for car theft….’ There is a fourth person to check according to the file. ‘Dupont’s last phone call traces to a local name, Tim Boxwood, linked to an address nearby in the Bowery.’ They don’t say what they did with Dupont, but they’re bound to have him locked up somewhere. Working him for information.”

  She let out a breath. “That’s a lot of laws to break.”

  “They’re up for breaking and entering, multiple counts of impersonating a police officer, assault and battery, kidnapping, and conspiracy to commit criminal acts. Murder might be next.” He shook his head, half in admiration for LeFarge, half in chagrin for how over the top it all was.

  “The poor bastard.” She had long since stopped work on her desktab. Her mouth angled down, her face dead serious. “Sounds dangerous, for you as well as Dupont.”

  “For me?”

  “It’s the big time, Mr. Steward. Rules are for other people, not O’Brien. He’s not on the firing line for this.”

  The air in the room hung humid, drenched in threat—she was right. O’Brien could need a scapegoat sometime in the future. “Then we’d better catch ou
r thieves before LeFarge goes any further. The fellow who broke in here and got away may be the same person as this Timothy Boxwood they found on Dupont’s iMob. There’s more. They raided the Boxwood place down in the Bowery, and one of the team shot another in the confusion. Boxwood got out the back door on a motorcycle.”

  She paged back on her desktab, her fingers flicking. “Wait, I’ve got a tie-in! I have regular payments to a Tim Boxwood on a bi-weekly basis starting four months ago. I’ve got the account number too—SoHo bank.” She beamed it over.

  “The money, that means that Boxwood is Zlata.”

  “Okay, that’s a jump, but what do you do with it?”

  “Maybe SoHo is where he lands. Maybe the Bowery. Let’s try to find out who this Zlata-slash-Boxwood is, using trails the police wouldn’t. I want you to start credit checks on Zlatas, all the Zlatas in America if you have to.”

  “Not the Boxwoods too?” she said with a touch of irony in her voice.

  “I have a reason. The coffee and cake deliveryman on the footage looked more Bosnian than English. Ergo, Zlata is the real name. Start with NYC first, and do the big cities next.”

  She muttered something he didn’t catch.

  He said, “I’ll call my friend again. We’ll pay through the nose, but we’ll get Boxwood’s bank transactions.”

  “What about Boxwood’s phone? The built-in GPS?”

  “Garland will be looking for Boxwood’s vidi. It’s either a quick win or a dead end, and Garland will already be on it.”

  “What are we chasing besides Zlata-slash-Boxwood, Mr. Steward?”

  “It’s Thomas, please. We’ll check real estate transactions in SoHo and the Bowery to see if Mr. Boxwood has purchased anything else in the last ten years.”

  “I have a friend in realty, Thomas. For a small fee, she’d do the search for us.”

  “Would she do it in a tearing hurry for a big fee?”